


London Falls

by TaraethysHolmes



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Gen, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV Mycroft Holmes, Protective Mycroft, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 06:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12270519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraethysHolmes/pseuds/TaraethysHolmes
Summary: "The moment I caught sight of him, I knew that I would love him. I suppose, looking back on that moment of incidence, that was my first real mistake."Mycroft Holmes will always care for Sherlock. No matter the cost. He will build an Ivory Tower high into the sky for his baby brother - keep the whole world safe if he has to.But it is never that simple. Not when Sherlock's worst enemy is himself.





	London Falls

_Known as Londinium to the Romans, London was - and still is - one of the greatest cities in the world. Central to the British Empire, it has perhaps only fallen but a few times. Home to some of the most famed modern and ancient landmarks, it possesses power and knowledge beyond compare._

_Of course, no city is infallible, no matter how powerful it may seem._

 

_1854_

_T_ he moment I caught sight of him, I knew that I would love him. I suppose, looking back on that moment of incidence, that was my first real mistake.

            The night that I met him, I was abed. The nursery was dark – I was just seven. Despite this, I was clever. I knew I was clever. I had informed my father when I deduced the wet nurse he had hired for the baby was cheating on her husband with the garden-boy. Of course, my mistake was that I told my father in front of the very same wet nurse. That is when I figured that it was a bad idea to make people angry. Something which I would attempt to teach him. To no avail, bien sur.

            It was dark. When the door opened, and the maid brought in the gurgling baby – the wet nurse had, of course, quit – she was haloed in light. Like an angel, I had thought at the time, rather whimsically. He quieted, immediately, as soon as the maid stepped into the dark room. There had been a small, iron cradle set up in the corner, across from the frescoed walls, but before this evening, the baby had been kept elsewhere. Thus, the basinet was completely bare, nothing but the iron bars to hold it together. Now, the child was here.

            I didn’t even possess knowledge of his name. It was not the custom in our family to be introduced to our siblings after birth. Only after being released from the wet nurse would I have made his acquaintance. But seeing as the wet nurse was no longer here – thanks in no small part to myself – the baby had to move here early while my mother and father scrambled to find another.

            It was a surprise when the maid, a tall, crane-looking woman with a sharp, severe face and a nasty smile, dumped the child on the bed next to me.

            She said; ‘Here, seeing as it be your fault that we no longer have a wet nurse, you can care for this child.’

            I had frowned, looking back at her, focusing my bleary eyes on her face. ‘You are engaging in a sordid affair of amour with the gardener, and you have also secreted one of Mother’s silver spoons under your rather dirty apron,’ I snapped, peering down my nose at her, despite the fact that I was the smaller of us.

            Her face drained of all colour, then the colour quickly rushed back, a bright purple. ‘How – how dare you!’ she blustered, her voice outraged and reaching an unpleasantly high pitch.

            ‘Oh, please don’t bother blustering around the issue, Mrs Kree, it be highly irritating,’ said I.      

Her face was the very picture of rage. She swept out of the room, her cloying scent billowing in the air behind her. I wrinkled my nose, blinking the blur of sleep from my eyes.

            He gurgled on the bed beside me, and I immediately snapped to attention, looking down and regarding the child with a stare. I certainly, completely expected to feel irritation, even hatred, for the despicable being that the maid had dumped on my bed like so much rubbish.

            However, his gaze was captivating. He was barely six months old, but his eyes had settled a deep, bright blue. The gaze was intelligent, something I had seen in my own eyes since I was just three years of age. He was studying me, just as I was studying him, even seemingly making observations and conclusions just as I could.

            But the most surprising thing – he was fascinating. Tiny wisps of dark, curled hair sitting on top of his head, sharp features that spoke a little more of my mother than my father. His entire face was incredibly dissimilar to my own – why, it seemed as if he was not my brother at all, if not for the shimmering intellect within his eyes.

            I shook my head.

            Such foolish thought – as if a mere child had any comprehension of my own intelligence – fanciful, in fact. I had prided myself on being anything but, really.

            Despite this, my eyes were still drawn back to the fascinating child – my brother. The thought was just beginning to sink in. No longer was I alone, no longer would I have free run of the household. Now, there was a small life, one that was completely within my care and responsibility.

            At the time, that was the conclusion that I had made, at least. It didn’t seem as if there was anyone else to care for the child. Certainly, my mother was not going to do it, socialite that she was. My father – far too busy. He was always too busy for myself – not that I harbour any resentment. At my current state, I am in perfect understanding.

            An erroneous conclusion, at that. It shackled me to the child, a shackle of that which I would never truly break free from.

            The child began to stir once more, as soon as my eyes removed from his face. I looked back down at him, and he fell silent. And then, as soon as I looked away, he would attempt to capture my attention.

            That was when I felt the first stirrings of irritation with the child. But, of course, it was superficial, nothing but a leaf in the wind of the strong, absolute adoration that I felt for the child lying on the bed next to me. He was looking up at me with those captivating, curious, intelligent, accusing eyes, and for some unforeseen reason, I felt immensely guilty.

            Silently, I raised a hand, laying a finger curiously on the end of the child’s nose. His eyes crossed, trying to see the tip of my finger. An arm emerged from the swaddle of cloth that he had been dropped on my bed in, tiny fingers reaching, grabbing. They closed around my finger, tiny, whisper-light touches that barely activated my nerve endings.

            And just as those fingers closed around my own finger, I felt an overpowering, overwhelming feeling of protectiveness. A bone-deep caring, a wave of love, plain and simple. I was embarrassed, of course, at the time. I continue to be, if I am honest with myself. It is not proper, not for a proud Victorian man, to care so deeply for another. So much so that I knew at the time that it must end in nothing but heartbreak for myself. But in spite of this, I continued down the path, one that I like to think that I chose, but most likely didn’t.

            It felt inevitable, really, now that I look back on it. The tip of the iceberg, the straw that broke the camel’s back. 

 

 

***

           

_1856_

The first time I heard my brother – Sherlock, as I had learnt his name – laugh, was like magic, as whimsical and idiotic as it may sound. No matter how many times after the first I promised myself to _let it go_ , it never did truly sink in.

            The laughter had come as a shock. I was eight and a half, a half that I was extremely proud of, and he was just coming up to his second birthday. He had learnt to walk, and talk, and as soon as I was sure he could understand, I began to teach him how to observe.

            We were down near the edge of the estate, where there was a large, ornamental pool with a fountain in the middle. The pool had a low, stone wall, that I had situated myself atop, and was looking down at my brother, pointing and explaining all the different types of trees on the estate. He was cross-legged, sitting in the dirt, his shorts covered in soil. Bright eyes stared up at me, engaged in every sense of the word.

            Then, cue a shout from the governess, a kindly young woman without children of her own; ‘Mycroft! Sherlock!’

            I had not been expecting it, so absorbed was I in teaching my young brother the ways of the world. It was surprising, for a me, a rather large shock that left me windmilling my arms about in order to attempt to retain my own balance – an effort that failed rather miserably. With a large, wet splash, I fell backwards, my shamefully large bulk creating a huge tidal wave of water, as I toppled into the pool. I broke its glassy surface with a great _‘kersplash’_ , and immediately felt water soaking through my small three-piece. My pocket-watch was going to be absolutely ruined. A shame, it had been a gift from Father.

            I growled in annoyance as I emerged from the water, sitting up with water sheeting down my face, limp, dark hair flopping into my eyes. Spitting the water that I had managed to inhale out of my mouth, I pushed myself up into a standing position.

            Sherlock had managed to wobble onto his feet, and was leaning over the wall, his eyes fixed on me. I tramped towards him, my feet squelching in my ruined leather shoes, frowning in annoyance as I waded forwards to my younger brother.

            He was staring at me curiously, his eyes wide.

            Then, to my surprise, he threw his small head back, his curls bouncing, and let out a long peal of laughter at my expression.

            Of course, I made a prideful attempt at fury, a frown darkening my brow and turning my lips down at the corners, but it was rather futile. I was helpless in the face of my brother’s innocent joy and amusement, and I found myself smiling lightly along with him. And if anyone were to ask it of me after the fact, I would most certainly not admit it, but truthfully, I let out a low chuckle of my own, scrunching my eyes up over my cheeks in amusement.

            Sherlock himself was endlessly entertained, his bright, intelligent blue eyes shimmering with mirth.

            ‘You’re all wet, My!’ he announced, in his lisping, coquettish voice.

            ‘Hilarious, Sherlock,’ I drawled, trying valiantly to hide my own amusement, ‘you know I do despise it when you state the obvious.’

            Sherlock didn’t reply, just laughed once more.

            A laugh that was, of course, cut short by the approach of our governess.

            While she was a kindly young woman, she was the fourth governess that I had had that year. Most had already left – usually due to Sherlock’s habit of announcing their deepest, darkest secrets for all to hear.

            I had tried many times to stop him – but he was absolutely incorrigible. My brother was a little like a force of nature, harsh, unyielding and stubborn, and would not bend for anyone and anything, not even me. I found myself, quite often, simply bowing to his demands – far easier than attempting to stand against the brother that I accepted I loved more than anything else in this world.

            Unfortunately for me, caring is most certainly not an advantage.

***

_1858_

The first time Sherlock managed to hurt himself was – I later decided – one of the worst days of my life. We were playing – or, rather – _Sherlock_ was playing, bending over and peering at what he had termed; “Intriguing Dust Patterns”, on the carpet.

            He was bent double, practically on all fours, as he made his way across the floor, gazing intently at the dust gatherings on the floor. He had, under my instruction, relished in the task, focusing his razor-sharp mind on deducing what the different patterning in the dust meant.

            ‘My, look here,’ he called, ‘this line of dust in conjunction with the sun bleaching shows us that the table used to be in this position, but was moved slightly.’

            ‘Yes, Sherlock,’ I acknowledged, ‘and why was it moved?’

            ‘Because the maid wanted to dust underneath the table, but due to her recent fall down the stairs, she cannot bend over without straining herself,’ he continued, ‘therefore, the butler must have moved it for her.’

            ‘No, Sherlock,’ I corrected, patiently, ‘it was the cook. Do you see the small, white dashes of powder on the legs and the beams of the table? Can you tell me what they are?’

            Sherlock lifted a finger that was lengthening and maturing, swiping it through the gathering of white dust on the leg, and immediately poking it into his mouth. I didn’t have the heart to tell him not to, despite the fact that he could have gotten ill. ‘It’s flour!’ he announced, excitedly.

            I looked up at him over the top of my book, feigning disinterest when, in fact, I had been watching him carefully for the last half an hour. ‘Yes, Sherlock. What can we deduce from that?’

            ‘If it’s flour, then the table must have been moved by someone who works with flour,’ Sherlock murmured, ‘which, in this house, is the cook or the baker. However, the baker is a woman, and the cook is the man, therefore it must have been the cook.’

            ‘Why must it have been the cook?’ I prompted.

            ‘Because of feminine nature,’ he replied, snappily, ‘and male pride. Females are weaker, they can’t lift tables as easily. Therefore, the maid, who is a woman, would immediately, instinctually ask the man for help instead of the woman.’

            ‘Correction,’ I intoned, ‘females are not necessarily weaker – they are simply more likely to be overlooked. Something which, I’m sure, can be used.’

            And with that, I looked back down at my book, trying to catch onto the place that I had left off from.

            ‘Boring,’ said Sherlock, ‘I do not have a care.’

            I ignored him. My brother got like this often, overcome with boredom and stagnant as a result. It did not bode well, to be certain.

            The text that I was reading I ascertained to be far more interesting than my wayward younger brother, a mistake that I wish I had corrected at the time, for what came next chilled my blood.

            A loud, sharp thump and then a short cry which then morphed into a series of low sobs, that were immediately muffled. As was proper in Victorian society. However, it did not fail to make me feel extenuatingly worried.

            Immediately, I tossed my book to the side, without a care for whether or not it was damaged, if I lost my page it was no matter. I remembered it anyhow. The far more worrying concept of my young brother being hurt in any way occupied me at this moment. Standing, I looked over to where he was lying, prone, on the floor, his hands woven tightly into his hair, pressing against his tiny skull. His face was contorted in pain, and blood was trickling down into the hollow of his left eye.

            I deduced what had occurred, of course. It seemed my brother had attempted to stand, while underneath the small table, and had struck himself on the bottom of the table.

            Bending over, I raised a hand to him, offering him assistance. He did not accept, just looking at me with baleful eyes.

            Sighing in resignation, I bent over, and lifted the small boy in my arms, my shamefully considerable bulk finally being of use. It allowed me to lift him, and in a fit of sentimentality, cradle him to my chest. Gently, I set him down on the settee that I had situated myself on earlier, and – lifting a handkerchief from my pocket – I wiped the blood and tears from his brow with care.      

            ‘You should take more care, ‘Lockie,’ said I, using the nickname that he had devised for himself long ago. He frowned, but his eyes were finally sparkling with something that be not tears.

            ‘Sorry, My,’ replied he, ‘it hurts.’

            ‘Stating the obvious,’ retorted I. He looked down. I sighed, once more, ‘Sherlock, I apologise. However, it does hurt, and I understand that. I do care for you, you realise?’

            He didn’t reply, simply looking away and sniffing. Smiling indulgently, I finished, folding the kerchief back into my pocket, and noting to hand it to a maid later. Then, lifting a finger, I laid it to rest atop his nose, just as I had when he was but a babe. As he did that first moment of incidence, he crossed his eyes trying to see the tip of my finger, and the lion of protectiveness reared its maned head once more.

            So, I promised myself, never would he suffer when it was within my power to stop it. Never would he be hurt because of my negligence.

***

_1859_

Upon my twelfth birthday, and past Sherlock’s fifth, our parents decided that it was high time we interacted with other gentry children of our age. Thus, our lord Father moved us to London, a large townhouse in the area of Whitehall, close to the govern-mental buildings that would define my future career. So excited was I to be moving to this place – which I had read of in many political science texts – that I barely noticed the trepidation that was usually so clear to me on my brother Sherlock’s face.

            We, of course, believed him to be an idiot. He was an idiot, particularly in comparison to myself – so unable to organise the train of his own thoughts. He believed that he would not be able to interact well, that if the rest of human-kind were as clever as I, then he should be degraded to the level of a first-rate idiot.

            He, of course, was ostracised for a completely different reason.

            The governess that we shared barely gave us a notion as to what the rest of the population of normal human beings were to be like. We were not to know that she had, in fact, been tutoring us far above our ordinary levels. Thus, we thought that I fit the norm of the day, and that Sherlock was therefore a retard, a lower intelligence.

            Of course, we immediately realised our error, when our Father introduced us to the young son of the Andrews family.

            Malcolm Andrews was most definitely an idiot, but one of such level that we had most certainly not anticipated. We came to learn later that he was what could be considered ‘normal’, but we were not to know it at the time. We believed him to have some sort of intellectual fault, some genetic retardation that I was kind enough not to point out.

            Sherlock, however, did not have the same such graces.

            Upon meeting him, Andrews began the conversation; ‘Hello,’ said he, in a low, coy voice, shyly looking up from his mother’s skirts.

            Sherlock was even more shy, standing behind me, and utilising the same bulk that he so enjoyed teasing me for, to hide behind, gripping the back of my suit-jacket tightly.

            I stepped forwards, holding out a hand, ‘Good morning, Mr Andrews,’ I stated, tightly, politely, ‘How are you?’

            He didn’t reply, just staring at me with awe.

            I looked down at him, snottily, ‘Well?’ demanded I, ‘do you not have a reply?’

            ‘I am … I am fine this morning,’ stuttered he, brown eyes winding over my own form. He had short, frail-looking yellow hair, and pale skin – red stained over his cheeks from the burn of the sun.

            Far to the left, our Fathers were mounting the carriage to take them into town for the day, bidding their wives good-bye with a wave. Top hats sat atop their heads, white gloves clutching long canes. Our Mothers stepped away, their skirts fluttering.

            Sherlock tugged my sleeve, after a moment.

            ‘Brother Mycroft,’ said he, attempting to gain my attention. I frowned, looking at him, and he pointed to where Andrews Senior was mounting the carriage.

            ‘What is it?’ demanded I.

            ‘Sir Andrews has been to an arms factory recently,’ deduced he, ‘but he is not an arms factory owner, neither does he invest in arms.’

            ‘Yes, Sherlock,’ I nodded, indulgently.

            ‘Why?’

            ‘Because,’ I replied, ‘Sir Andrews does, in fact, invest in arms, but he does so secretly, it is illegal.’

            ‘Well,’ said he, ‘should we not do something about that?’

            ‘It is not our concern,’ replied I, ‘perhaps, instead, you should discuss it with Mr Andrews here.’

            Sherlock stepped forwards, suddenly eager, fixing Malcolm Andrews in his soul baring gaze. Andrews shrunk back, his lower lip wobbling, as Sherlock stalked forwards – a great cat with prey in his sights.

            ‘What do you think?’ demanded he, towering over the small child.

            ‘Of – of what?’ Malcolm stuttered, in fear.

            ‘Of the fact that your father,’ he repeated, gesticulating wildly, ‘is dealing arms illegally!’         

            ‘No, he is not!’ replied Malcolm, outraged, but clearly unsure why.

            ‘Yes, of course he is,’ Sherlock retorted, ‘Did you not regard the stains on his coattails and on his sleeves? They were gunpowder and ash, a specialised kind – from the tint – specifically from an arms factory.’

            ‘Sherlock,’ I warned, suddenly realising what was going on, ‘I believe that it may be best to stop talking.’

            He whirled on me, small face looking up at mine in confusion.

            ‘Why?’ asked he.

            I bent down, realising that it was not a polite thing to say to one’s face. ‘Because,’ I explained, ‘I believe that Mr Andrews here may have a retardation.’

            ‘Oh!’ said Sherlock, in understanding. He turned back to Andrews, regarding him with a stripping gaze. ‘Is my brother correct? Do you have a mental retardation!’

            ‘Sherlock!’ My Mother was here, and she was scandalised, as was Andrews’ own mother. ‘I do apologise,’ said she, to Andrews’ mother, who was purple with outrage, ‘my sons do not have much experience with interactions of a normal kind.’

            That was the moment that both he and I deduced that we were not normal, that we were far above the norm with regards to intellect.

            Both Sherlock and I took a step back, in shock. Sherlock’s eyes widened, and then he turned on me, accusingly.

            ‘You said that you were normal!’ exclaimed he.

            ‘I honestly believed that I was,’ I defended myself.

            It wasn’t enough. With a huff of irritation, Sherlock stalked off.

***

_1864_

I was already attending grammar school upon my brother’s admission to the place. Of course, it was just disastrous, what with Sherlock’s penchant for causing clouds of mayhem wherever he happened to find himself.

            The first day which he was attending, he immediately located the nearest laboratory of the sciences, and set about making connections for himself, and establishing himself as the school’s resident – for lack of a better term – psychopath.

            Being seven years older than my young brother led me to a certain inability to watch his movements, something which I had found myself attempting to rectify with what Sherlock came to term my ‘little birds’. Young members of his cohort who, for a price, would inform me as to my brother’s movements. They were however, just as lost as I when my brother chose to evade them.

            I was in no shape to follow him over hill and dale, thus I left him to his own devices, something that I sorely regretted. I was busy, of course. Political sciences became my forte. I so enjoyed the political novels that I had read as a young child that it had become my dream. I had become enchanted by the works of such politicians as Benjamin Disraeli and William Gladstone that I was blinded to much else.

            The movements of my wayward younger brother were left as such, a dim candle in the back rooms of my mind, where the front was pre-occupied with what I saw as my greater purpose. My pursuit of knowledge and power was such that it led me to the idea of the ‘man behind the curtain’, so to speak.

            I was certainly not enamoured with the idea of becoming the ‘Prime Minister’, rather I would prefer to be in a position such that it allowed me to fulfil a purpose, greater than the one which was presented to an individual.

            Thus, I worked. I fought to know the inner workings of Westminster, the political machinations that I had so fallen in love with as a lad.

            And yet. Here still was the sense that I was disappointing my brother. I had kept my eye out, as much as I had thought possible at the time. Neither did I think of the reasons behind my desire for control, for power, further than the most superficial of reasons. A romantic ideal, to be sure. Certainly, the veil was pulled from my eyes upon the first report from my birds.

            Sherlock was missing. That was the first thing that I had found.

            I had soon realised, upon his entry to Grammar School, that he was struggling to condone other humans. He saw them just as I saw them. The divide, the great difference. The other who seemed so much … lesser. Particularly when compared to us. I often found myself frustrated that others could not seemingly open their eyes. Rest their sights upon what was right in front of them, things that were just so naturalised and obvious for Sherlock and I.

            Thus, with Sherlock missing, I set upon the mission of tracking down my young brother. I had made a vow. I had sworn to protect him, and while I certainly did not think of it as my most important duty at the time, it was one that I took extremely seriously.

            To my horror, I found him in a ditch at the far end of the school building. His pale, fair skin was scraped, scarred and cut, his dark hair matter about his face. One eye was swollen shut, purple in colour and almost angry-looking.

            The small child that had led me to my brother was shuddering beside me, his eyes clenched shut.

            ‘Away with you,’ I snarled, casting the boy aside with a flick of my finger. In my haste to reach my brother, I tripped and fell into the ditch, dirtying my southern necessities. I stumbled and scrambled down towards my brother, who was lying in a pool of stagnant water, running red with blood.

            Gently, I knelt down beside him, and lifted him into my arms just as I had done when we were young children.

            His every breath was harsh, coming in guttural pants. Skin, hot and clammy, slid around under my fingers, but I made haste, lifting him in my arms and immediately making my way towards the dormitories. Boys regarded us with curious looks as we went by, some sneering when they sighted who I held in my arms.

            That was when I realised my gross negligence.

            These boys were no friends of my brother. They would wish him harm – it was plain as day. And I could find many reasons why. I had known that my brother was abrasive, at the very least, but I had hoped that he had the sense to hide it just as I had done. It seemed, however, that my brother was much more turbulent than I. So much more incapable of hiding who and what he was.

            The Doctor on campus was nothing but a witch-doctor. His rooms were dark, and musty, and the scent of blood and internal organs had not faded from the walls. The entire room made me retch, and just as the man himself attempted to pull himself to his feet – so pinned down was he by his own bulk – than I had exited the room just as quickly as I had come in. The closest place I could think to bring my brother was to my bedchamber.

            Lying him down gently on the low cot, I leant over to wipe the blood from my brother’s face with a handkerchief.

            For the first time since I had retrieved him from the ditch, he made a sound. He let out a guttural groan of pain, and I was sad to realise that the voice was unfamiliar to me. My own brother had matured beyond his years in the time that I had ignored him, and I did not even recognise his voice.

            I did not need to recognise his communications to understand them. He was in pain, and a great deal of it.

            Forcing myself to be calm, I spoke, ‘Where does it hurt, brother mine?’

            ‘Everywhere,’ he replied, his voice low.

            ‘What happened?’

            He refused to reply, his lips tightly sealed together. I frowned, and repeated my question.         

            ‘Sherlock, you must tell me,’ I informed him brusquely, ‘if you do not tell me, then I will be forced to … find out for myself.’

            ‘The boys in third form,’ he replied, quietly, almost too quiet for my ears to perceive, ‘they found me in the forest – I was simply collecting leaf samples for my report on bacterial growth.’

            ‘Brother,’ I frowned, realising that he was not fully telling the truth.

            ‘I may have told the boys that their homosexual relations with one another were known to me, as were their fathers’ acts of adultery,’ replied he, looking away from my eyes.

            ‘Look at me, Sherlock,’ I demanded, mopping his face clean of the fresh blood that had welled up in the cut over his eye. He refused, stubbornly looking at the opposite wall. ‘Sherlock,’ I snapped. The tone of my voice caused him to look at me sharply, his pale blue eyes meeting my own. ‘What were their names?’

            ‘I will not tell tales,’ he replied, still showing a great level of stubbornness, ‘I refuse.’

            ‘Sherlock,’ I found myself pleading, ‘I need you to tell me.’

            ‘No,’ he quickly snapped.

            ‘If you do not tell me, then I am certain I can deduce it for myself,’ I replied, easily, ‘from the cut on your forehead, clearly administered by a set of nails, I can tell is from a left-handed boy. There are just four left-handed boys in Third Form; Gregson, Jones, Camden and Mallory. Gregson and Jones are loyal to me – they would not lay a finger on you. That leaves us with Camden and Mallory. Mallory is much smaller than you, and would not be able to reach up at claw at your face, and I can tell from the amount of dirt caught in the gash that it was administered before you were pushed to the ground. Thus, Camden was the culprit. And, I am sure, when I find Camden, I will find those who wished you harm. Am I correct?’

            Sherlock did not reply, but his silence was enough confirmation.

            I left my brother there, once the blood was cleared of his face. Camden – the perpetrator of the cut – could easily be found just before he entered the mess hall. I found that stepping from the shadows was the most intimidating tactic. Surrounded by four cronies, Camden cowered away from my scorching gaze as I towered over them, the sixth form boy that I was.

            Three other sixth formers stood by my side, and the roughest and meanest of the bunch, a young man by the name of Oliver Campbell, cracked his knuckles, a nasty smile on his face.

            ‘It has come to my attention,’ I murmured, quietly enough so as to force the boys to lean forwards and listen, ‘that you have recently assaulted and bled a young first former by the name of Sherlock Holmes.’

            The third formers laughed, bawdily, at that.

            ‘Sure,’ replied one, ‘we did. What’s it to you?’

            ‘My name,’ I said, ‘is Mycroft Holmes. Did you believe it simply a coincidence?’

            The boys immediately shrunk back. I had a reputation, after all. A reputation which I had built carefully, and over many years. The sixth formers at my back all owed me, and would continue to owe me. I had many favours, and even more secrets, that there were few who would not bend to my will.

            ‘Campbell, take Messrs Phillips, Smith, Ogden and Andrews. I believe that there is a lesson I would like you to teach them,’ I murmured. Campbell and his two mindless minions stepped forwards and grabbed the four, dragging them out the double doors leading to the gardens. ‘And as for you, Mr Camden, take this as a warning. If you ever lay a finger on my brother again, I will ensure that you and your family line feel the transgression for the next hundred years. Am I perfectly understood?’

            ‘Cry … crystal,’ stammered the young boy. I frowned.

            ‘Make sure that all who would wish him harm know this,’ I said, turning on one heel disinterestedly. Campbell, just as I had instructed beforehand, moved back into the hall to remove Camden from my sight, but I was already gone.

            I immediately returned to my brother’s bedside, leaning over to work the blood from his face once more. His eyes were clenched shut, but his fists were loose. Small, snuffling snores emanated from his mouth. I allowed myself a small smile, which quickly turned back to a frown when I noted his slight fever.

A curse, I wished, upon those boys.

            ‘I swear it to you,’ I whispered, not only myself, but to my younger brother, ‘I will build for us an Ivory Tower that touches the sky. I will watch you, and keep you safe always, just as I have always done. I will protect you from those who wish you harm, whether that be others or yourself. I promise you this.’

***

_1865_

In the fall of 1865, my mother brought me to the first of many social events. A ball, in this instance, one at which the young debutante daughters of certain families would present. I suspect, not for the first time, that my mother’s intention was to find a … young woman. One which I would settle down with, make children, and pass on the family line. Much to my dismay, and disgust. Being 18 at the time, I had many more ambitions than just that.

            Thus, standing in a corner, I regarded the entire procedure down my – as my brother was fond of remarking – beak-like nose. I thought that it lent me a certain, regal air. My brother disagreed.

            The buxom young women twirling on the floor appeared almost floating, bright dresses practically blinding in their garish colours. One woman, her straw-coloured hair piled atop her head in dried-out curls, had so much make-up pasted on her face, I suspected that I may be able to stand before her, and swipe a finger through the mess and come away with residue piled upon my finger. She twirled across the floor in my direction, and I amused myself by making observations about her life based simply upon what I saw.

            She wore a corset under her dress which gave her an extremely false hourglass figure, to the point where it seemed to be squeezing her extra mass towards her head. Her head may burst like a balloon at that rate. Her heaping makeup was hiding the marks of smallpox upon her face, despite the fact that it was certainly more fashionable to be lacking in makeup of any sort. Her hands fluttered about her face – she thought it to give her a certain coquettish air. However, it did nothing but make her seem all the vapider. Her lashes beat against her face, across her small cheeks, covered in damp beet-juice. Why, she almost seemed feverish with it, the fact was that she may very well be. This same beet-juice was making the others in the room hide demurely behind feathered fans, and giggle at the showy woman.

            Her mother had died. That much was certain. From the level of inexperience that she was portraying with her façade told me that there was no-one in her life to teach her these things. Her father, most likely a banker, was new money, adding all the more to the sense that she was most certainly inexperienced and unknowledgeable with these things. The gloves she wore were stained at the tips with ink – thus, she kept a diary. I could only imagine the entry this evening; _Dear Diary, I am most excited to be attending the first of what I suspect will be many balls. Delightful events!_

            I must admit that I had to resist the urge to gag, a most ungentlemanly act, at that thought. Myself, I could not think of any situation which was worse than the one in which I currently found myself.

            The woman turned away, twirling off the arm of a young man – who proceeded to lead her in a circle. From his leer, I could immediately deduce that he would be the one to – later this evening – burst the bubble of innocence which she had fooled herself into.

            In regard to the men themselves, the best and brightest of them stood on the edges, talking amongst one another. Yet others stood in the centre of the floor like stout poles, while young women twirled about them. Hands out and poised, white gloves held neatly in offering to the vultures. They were treated almost like maypoles, brightly coloured debutantes turning about them.

            My mother drew up beside me in that moment. She leaned against me, and I must admit that I resisted the urge to pull away from her touch. Her breath smelt of wine, and her hair fell uncomfortably on my neck, my skin itching at its touch.

            ‘Do you have one set in your sights, my dear boy?’ she questioned. I frowned, and shook my head placidly. ‘Shame,’ she replied, pursing her lips, ‘perhaps that one?’

            She pointed one long, claw-like finger at a young woman on the edge of the floor, her eyes downcast. When she looked up, I saw why. Her face was small, and almost rat-like. My mother tutted. ‘Perhaps not,’ I replied, distastefully.

            ‘What of that one there?’ And to my horror, she pointed to the young debutante that I had spied earlier. I took a step back, horrified.

            ‘Certainly not!’ The disgust in my tone was enough for my mother to look at me, regarding me with a long look, before returning to the floor.

            I was disgusted by the blatant disregard of these women as human. She seemed to be picking through them as one would pick through the meats at a butcher-shop. However, I had not gotten thus far without realising a few seemingly-naturalised truths. Women were of lesser class, so it seemed.

            Secretly, I disagreed. Such mastery of words was displayed by such authoresses as the Bronte sisters, George Elliot and Elizabeth Gaskell, not to mention Mary Shelley, that it was difficult to imagine this flipside of man as anything lesser. I was a distinctly minority opinion, however. This was to my dismay, of course, but later in my life this would become extremely useful knowledge to me. All overlooked the young woman in the corner.

            ‘Mother,’ said I, catching my mother’s attentions, ‘I would speak to the men of note. Have you perchance caught sight of Lord Regis and Lord Moran by now?’

            ‘Certainly,’ she replied, acquiescing, and pointing out the men in question.

            I followed her line of sight, and set my eyes upon Lord Regis, the Prime Minister, and Lord Moran, his Minister at Arms.

            Lord Regis was a mouse-like man in every sense of the word, from the greying whiskers upon his cheeks to the twitching of his tiny, pink nose. He had simply the longest brow-hairs that I had seen upon another man. His hands were held before him, in a way that only seemed to add to the initial assessment of him as a mouse-figure.

            At his side, Lord Moran was a rather oaf of a man, one who was seemingly rather – for lack of a better word – unintelligent. He reminded me of a gorilla in its cage at the London Zoo, beating against the bars, too stupid to realise that it was trapped.

            Despite this first impression, I wandered in their direction, leaving my mother behind to flounce off. The two men were deeply entrenched in conversation, one which I could clearly overhear.

            ‘… there is a conundrum,’ finished Lord Regis, his small nose quivering.

            ‘I do understand your trepidation, my Lord,’ replied yet another man. This other was a thin, stick-like figure, with a large moustache obscuring his face, ‘but understand that Tristayne and Nickolay Garzone both have information that would be key in pinning down the perpetrator of this fraud-ring.’

            ‘However, they are both wanted by the French!’ Regis burst out, his jowls wobbling, his face flushing red. ‘We cannot afford to anger the French yet again, particularly not after the incident with the poisoned chalice, much as it may please Her Majesty.’

            ‘The newspapers have, thus far, found just the tip of the iceberg with regards to the certain issues of fraud amongst the higher echelons,’ said the man with the large moustache, ‘but the fact of the matter remains that if any of this were to further get out, Her Majesty would be most displeased. This is an internal matter, and must be dealt with as so. Tristayne and Nickolay Garzone hold the key information regarding the transportation of gold poundage across the channel to the Continent! If we were to be able to find their movements more easily through the information that the Garzone brothers could provide, we could finally track down the source!’

            ‘We cannot keep them, Sir Griffiths! It is as simple as that,’ Regis replied, indifferent, ‘the end of the American War is nigh, and the new peace with France will not last if we do not maintain it! The simplest way to do so is to hand over these prisoners as a gesture of good-will.’

            I immediately decided that enough was enough. I cleared my throat, and stepped into the tight-knit circle of men. All eyes turned upon me, the beady eyes of Regis particularly assessing.

            ‘The answer seems simple, does it not?’ I questioned, raising an eyebrow.

            Regis, Moran and Griffiths all burst into raucous laughter.

            ‘Simple,’ cried one, ‘nothing in the machinations of Westminster is ever _simple,_ boy. But, by all means, if you have an idea, let us hear it.’

            ‘There are two, correct? Tristayne and Nickolay Garzone,’ I questioned, despite the fact that I was extremely aware of the facts, ‘And which of them know more? Nickolay, or Tristayne?’

            ‘Nickolay,’ replied Griffiths, chortling, ‘I believe, what relevance does it have?’

            ‘Hand over Tristayne, then,’ I replied, ‘and then keep Nickolay. Inform the French that he has committed crimes on London soil, and you would have him hanged. If the French further enquire, then set up a false hanging. Another criminal, with a similar body type to Nickolay, dressed in his clothing, and with a bag over his head. Have him hanged instead, and then retain Nickolay. I am sure that you are perfectly capable of … extracting the required information from him.’

            The men regarded me. Regis was frankly assessing, Moran a hulking mass at his side. I returned the gaze steadily.

            ‘What is your name, boy?’ demanded Griffiths.

            ‘I am Mycroft Holmes, son of Musgrave Hall.’

            ‘You are Lord Holmes’s son,’ Regis finished, ‘Interesting. I have heard stories of you, rather, I have heard stories of your brother.’

            ‘My brother’s behaviour in no way reflects my own, Lord Regis,’ I replied, simply.

            ‘Make certain of that,’ Lord Regis nodded, ‘and you will have a prime position. I am giving you this role, do not make me regret it.’

            And thus, the foundations of my Ivory Tower were laid.

***

_1870_

Gathering power from all corners quickly became my new purpose. I took it when it was given. Even, sometimes, when it was not.

            The Prime Minister, particularly after I – practically singlehandedly – brought down the fraud-ring and handed the perpetrators to the Topographical Department, regularly brought internal issues and conflicts to me.

            Issues of blackmail, of extortion, of treason, even, memorably, of terrorism to the level of Guy Fawkes, all began to siphon across my desk. The job became increasingly time-consuming and all-encompassing, but never did I forget my brother.

            In fact, the more power I gained, the further surveillance I established. My ‘runners’, as I had begun to call them, were recruited off the street, from the ranks of the army, even from Scotland Yard and the City Police. They spread about, like a spider’s web, and every twitch would come back to me, the spider sitting in the centre. I had eyes everywhere.

            But just as I had eyes everywhere, did Sherlock begin to learn to avoid me all the more. Slipping into cracks and crannies, he consistently undermined and outran me.

            He was, by now, in university. His last few years, he read Chemistry, and consistently manage to perpetrate and perpetuate explosion after explosion, disaster after disaster. However, I must say, that I cleaned up after him just as well as was expected of me, under the radar, of course.

            No one must ever know of the depth of my regard for my young brother, the child that I still saw in him. Every time he would throw a tantrum just as a babe would, and every time I would ensure his continued safety. My Ivory Tower was springing up from the ground faster and faster with each day.

            Soon enough, I found myself established as the centre of the wheel that made Westminster turn. I ensured that order was maintained, and in turn, those around me fed me even more power.

            They often spoke about me behind my back, but I learnt the lesson of Caesar. I would not come out of the shadows. While Britain built an Empire, I mirrored. I built my empire up from the ground, until I had even Lord Regis shuffling his feet and looking at his toes as he stepped into my office to request I clean up yet another of his messes.

            Ever more useful were the women. Quiet, and seemingly timid, they hung in every corner of every room. Lord Regis’ wife was one of the most useful informants, to the point where I knew of many bills before they were even proposed.

            There were those who called me the ‘Ice Man’, a reputation which I chose to perpetuate. It was certainly aiding in my efforts in protecting my brother. The world chose to believe that I had no emotions, no caring. Thus, I would not care for one wayward, careless younger brother, and none sought to harm him for reasons pertaining to me.

            However, this did not negate the fact that there were those who wished him harm simply for the fact of his existence. I was more than aware of the fact that my brother was one to abrade against others. He would often be the subject of fights, finding himself in awful situation after awful situation. And thus, so preoccupied was I with the machinations of my wheel, I let it go.

            I assigned parts of my web to him, ensnaring him in protection after protection to ensure that none would do him harm, and hoped to all the Gods that it would be enough to keep my brother safe.

            ‘What do you want?’

            A question that was asked of me so often. Knowledge of a person’s desires was simply useful. Every person wished for something, and I would quite often provide it, just as there were those who sought to provide me with what I wanted.

            I stood.

            My wood-panelled office was warm, basking in the heat of the fire. The secretary and errand boy stood to the side of the room, both staring at the man in the centre. Prime Minister Regis was certainly on his last legs, having aged considerably over the years.

            Ripples, and ripples. Ripples that turned into waves that turned into tsunamis that would bring him crashing to the ground. It was inevitable.

            However, he was attempting to save himself. He had come to me, after all.

            Rumblings below, deep in the belly of the machine, of the clockwork, told me that it was time. Should I save the career of the man who put me where I am, then my power would be restricted. I was not viewed as a sessile body by this man, I was seen as transient.

            But for those who came next, I am a pillar. I am the axle ‘round which all spin. Thus, it is time.

            ‘What do I want, Prime Minister?’ I asked, carefully folding my hands before me, and facing away from the man, staring into the fire that lit the room on this cold winter’s eve.

            ‘Yes, Mr Holmes. What do you want?’

            ‘I don’t have a want for anything,’ I replied, ‘I must study politics and war, as it was worded by John Adams, in order for my sons to have the liberty to study mathematics and philosophy.’ I would wish that for my brother. I must keep the world safe for him.

            ‘You must want something,’ he pleaded, ‘something that I can give you.’

            ‘You have nothing that I want, now,’ I drawled.

            ‘I put you where you are!’ he blustered at me, his hands waving in the air. I turned to him, folding my hands behind my back.

            ‘You may have given me my first step, but I assure you, Lord Regis, all this,’ I widened my hands, gesturing to the office, and the general building in which it stood – my building, ‘I gave to myself. I have built this place as the centre of the wheel. All of you spin around me. And I would not have it any other way. So no, Lord Regis, there is nothing that I require of you now.’

            ‘Mycroft, old chap,’ he smiled, too familiar for my taste, ‘come along, we have fought together for many a year now.’

            ‘Indeed, we have,’ I replied, ‘and now, you serve me best when you are gone.’

            Nothing more was said. I turned back to the fire, as the secretary ushered the man out, and ushered in the new era in which I was immoveable. A fact as much as Westminster and the establishment itself.

***

_1873_

I visited Sherlock at University one summer afternoon. He was less than delighted, but he bore it. I sat in the main family greeting lounge, regarding him with a gaze that was inquisitive, at the least.

            He sat across from me, a cup of tea in one hand, a pile of photographs in the other. He was gesticulating wildly, speaking to me of the ship the Gloria Scott, a boy named Victor Trevor, a man named Armitage and the goldfields of Australia.

            Apparently, this had been his very first ‘case’, as he liked to call them. He had had many, at this point, particularly as a result of his association with a certain Detective Inspector G. Lestrade of Scotland Yard. I noted this name, and reminded myself to pay a visit to this Lestrade as soon as I was able.

            Sherlock begun to tell me about the man named Hudson, and how he had found Hudson to be guilty of blackmailing Mr Trevor, who turned out to be a man named Armitage, who had made a fortune on the goldfields of Australia.

            I paid attention as he carefully explained about the ship, and the plot of mutiny found out by Hudson, and used to extort favour from the Trevor family.

            I frowned, when Sherlock described Hudson’s attack.

            ‘Sherlock,’ I interrupted, ‘I do wish you had taken a measure of security with you.’

            ‘I am not a child,’ he retorted, ‘I didn’t need it. I am far too clever to be hurt in any way now.’

            ‘You say that,’ I retorted, ‘but if your disposition and regard for others has undergone a drastic change, then where is this ‘Mr Trevor’ now?’

            ‘I … I …’ he stuttered, the file falling from his hand to spread across the floor.

            I smiled. ‘Sherlock, remember this, because it will serve you well,’ said I, ‘There are always those out there who start out with good intentions, but so very rarely follow through. And for us, it is a practical impossibility that people will willingly choose to be our friends.’

            ‘And what of you?’ he asked, insecure, ‘why do you continue to look out for me?’

            ‘Because you are my brother,’ I replied, simply.

            ‘Is that all?’ he asked, looking away, ‘that is good to know.’

***

_1876_

My first impression of Detective Inspector Lestrade, as my secretary ushered him in through the door, was a young man, but old for the horrors that he had seen. Creases around his eyes denoted not laughter, but stress. Greying hair feathered across his crown, yet he seemed to just be over thirty years of age.

            Despite this, he had a certain battle-axe look about his eyes. A razor-sharp focus – and it was at this point that I understood what Sherlock saw in the Detective Inspector.

            ‘Who are you?’ the Inspector asked, suspiciously, ‘what am I doing here?’

            ‘I am … an interested party. I have brought you here to have a discussion regarding Sherlock Holmes, and your ongoing association with him,’ I replied, easily. He frowned.

            ‘What is it to you?’ questioned he, a certain defensive note coming into his tone.

            ‘As I said before,’ repeated I, ‘I am an interested party.’

            ‘Interested in Holmes,’ he concluded, ‘for what reason?’

            ‘You have many questions,’ commented I, ‘and you expect me to answer all. What do you know about Sherlock Holmes?’

            ‘I do not know a great deal of information about him,’ replied he, ‘I met him not four weeks ago.’

            ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘Sherlock Holmes … has a certain manner about him. He has an intelligence that is to be respected.’

            ‘What do you mean?’

            ‘Sherlock Holmes is extraordinarily intelligent, as you have no doubt found out. He will be able to solve most cases that you put before the altar of his mind, but you may come to wish it were otherwise. As you have noted, he has a certain predilection to the abrasive, and I am willing to offer you some sum of money in order to prevent your further straying from…’

            He cut me off, ‘I will not accept bribes,’ said he.

            ‘It is not a bribe,’ I replied, ‘it is simply a small sum of money.’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘You are not a wealthy man, Detective Inspector. For the inconvenience of working with Sherlock Holmes, I will give you this.’

            ‘No,’ said he, bluntly, ‘I do not require money, nor validation, for working with Holmes. He is an asset, despite some abrasive tendencies.’

            I frowned. This was not at all what I had expected of the man. I had expected, as with many more of Sherlock’s previous – for lack of a better word – friends, him to take the money and not say a word about it. ‘Are you certain, Detective Inspector?’

            ‘I am,’ replied he, ‘I am sure you understand, after all, you are his brother. I would not betray Holmes. I have rather come to enjoy his blunt honesty.’

            I was dumbstruck. It must have shown on my face, for the Detective Inspector threw back his head and laughed.

            ‘I am a Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard for a reason,’ said he, ‘I do know brothers when I see them. So, you are his brother. Goodness, I was not expecting there to be two of you.’

            ‘Certainly,’ replied I, attempting to retain some measure of my previous composure. ‘Well, I am sure that you can understand. I do worry for him, constantly.’

            ‘I am aware of that, and I will do all I can to ensure that Sherlock has cases and is kept safe.’

            I nodded, ‘thank you.’

***

_1880_

The first time that I heard of Sherlock’s drug use, I thought not much of it. I thought that it would be a simple thing, something he would quickly grow out of.

            However, I did cut off his allowance.

            The second time, I just shrugged, but allowed it to rest. The same for the third and fourth. He stopped, then. Several months went by without a care. But then.

The telegram came as a surprise, to me. A sharp knock on the door, to be opened by the butler. The telegram was taken, and handed to me as I sat at my desk.

            _Mr Holmes, as I am sure you are aware, we are doing everything we can to watch your brother. However, it has come to our attention that he has turned to the newest addiction that has recently come into play. Cocaine, he imbibes, a seven percent solution to be precise. He has stated on numerous occasions that it is useful for brain work. While none have proven it to be detrimental to the health, I would warn you of it. Good day._

My horror silenced the room.

            The one thing that I had hoped never to occur, the one thing I had not had a plan in place for, my brother was choosing to destroy himself. There were always those who wished him harm, and now it was furthered. The thought of my brother, in some den of heathens, with a glass syringe pressed to his veins, made my blood run cold.

            ‘Where is he now?’ I demanded, ‘Find him! I would go to him myself!’

            ‘Sir, we are not sure,’ replied the butler, ‘I will have him found immediately.’

            ‘No time,’ I snapped, getting to my feet and slamming the telegram back onto the desk. My anger was overwhelming, flushing all the horror and sadness out of my mind. It levelled, and with a great sweep of my arms, the paperwork was thrown from the desk to the floor.

            The maid let out a gasp, and ran from the room.

            I panted out a few breaths, and quietly, I stepped out of the room. ‘I must find my brother.’

            The streets of London were densely packed, with the homeless, with the beggars, and with carriages clopping along, led by horses. The cry of cab-drivers, and the crack of the whips mixed in with the overwhelming babble on the streets, and the shouting and braying and neighing and _noise_ made me dizzy. I felt nauseated, ill. The world was tilting, and tipping, and the floor was wavering under my feet as the deck of a ship. I suddenly felt small, in this huge, pulsing hub of life, life that was slowly being drained in a syringe from my brother.

            And my brother. The small, curly-haired child with blue-blue eyes that laughed and smiled and frowned and cried. The brother that was helpless without me, hapless and needing in the darkness of the nursery that first night. I was so confused, so disoriented, and the sensation of absolute terror in the pit of my stomach was so much so that I bent double, hiding my face and my ears in the folds of my gloves.

            I would not cry. I would not cry.

            The noise did not stop.

            Spinning and spinning about me and never stopping and I was so, so confused, so disoriented. I needed to find my footing. I needed … I needed to find my brother.

            My brother’s laughter.

            I needed to find my brother.

            Sherlock needed me. He needed me now. Thus, to hell with what happened to me.

            ‘Cab!’ I shouted. The horseman who pulled up led a black horse by my side. The carriage clacked over the flagstones of the street, and the carriage rocked as I pulled myself up into it.

            ‘Sir!’ A butler called out from inside the house. The portly man came running out, wielding a coat and a hat. I immediately recognised that in my haste, I had failed to collect my clothing.

            ‘Many thanks,’ I replied, gathering the clothing from the man’s hands, and pulling it about myself like a suit of armour.

            With a click of his tongue, the cab sped off, the driver cracking the whip, the horse kicking its fury.

            I thought.

            Where would my brother go?

            ‘University College,’ I called up to the driver, not waiting for a reply.

            It was just a few minutes hard drive away. The hooves of the horses clacked over the flags as I thought. He was involved in drugs. Thus, a place near to the college, convenient, which had possession of the resources to make drugs.

            I recalled, from my own time there, that there was a park with a large gazebo and arbour under which the homeless sat in squalor. I remembered one incident in which I had found myself strolling amongst them, amusing myself with deductions, and observing their transactions.

            ‘Richmond Gardens,’ I called.

            ‘Make ‘yer bloody mind up!’ he snapped back, but I heard him halt, and pull the carriage around in what I recalled being the correct direction.

            Soon enough, I could pull myself out of the carriage. I recognised the area immediately. ‘Remain here,’ I called to the driver. He nodded his assent, and pulled a cheap smoker from his dirty, torn pocket.

            I set off across the park, my hands shaking by my sides, Sherlock the only thought on my mind. The arbour was up ahead, and many a small, hunched figure lay in its shadow. The dark night was not enough to deter many, it seemed.

            And there. Right in the left-hand corner next to the pillar, sat my brother. His clothing torn and dirty, his hair matted at loose, but it was him. I would recognise my brother anywhere, in any shape. His eyes were dark, and completely glazed over with the drugs ricocheting through his system.

            I hastened my steps.

            It was not long until I was before him.

            Bending over, I raised his chin to look him in the eyes. He barely recognised me, just groaning and attempting to tug his head out of my grasp.

            ‘Sherlock,’ I snapped, grabbing his attention, ‘Sherlock, it is Mycroft, have you the ability to hear me?’

            ‘Shut up,’ he returned, ‘please.’

            Never had I known my brother to plead with me.

            ‘Sherlock, we are going to leave this place, now,’ I told him, firmly. I put my hands under his arms, and utilising all my strength, I lifted him.

            To my horror, he weighed not more than a leaf. His body seemed hollow, somehow. I frowned, and dragged him towards the edge of the park, practically throwing him n the carriage.

            ‘Return to Crusader House,’ I requested. With a click, the cab was set off.

            ‘Leave me be, Mycroft,’ said he, lowly.

            ‘No,’ I replied, simply, ‘I will not leave you be.’

            ‘Why not?!’ screamed he, ‘why will you not let me live my life! I am no longer a child for you to coddle!’

            ‘No, Sherlock,’ I whispered, the weight and fear of the day overcoming me.

            ‘You treat me like a child, Mycroft,’ he shot back, ‘you think I don’t notice these bars that you have set around me? There are so many people around me at all times that I am suffocating!’

            ‘Sherlock, I …’

            ‘No!’ he shouted, ‘you do not get to speak! I am sick and tired of you! Do not believe that I have not noticed you cutting off my allowance! You force me to find other means to fund my life, you force me to come to you, or, in reality, your assistants, like some sort of common beggar!’

            ‘Sherlock, that is …’

            ‘I hate you!’ he screamed, in retaliation, ‘I hate you, and I hate everything that you have done! You have no right to …’

            ‘You are a parasite.’

            ‘What?’ he demanded. I had not spoken loud enough for him to hear.

            I did not reply.

            ‘What?’ he repeated, ‘You sit in judgement of me, Mycroft, and yet you are no better. You regard us all down your fat nose, as if we are not worth your time.’

            My rage reached a new level.

            ‘I said,’ I repeated, my louder booming voice reigning over my brother’s tinny one, ‘that you are a parasite, Sherlock!’ 

            I expected a reply. I did not get one. Sherlock had collapsed.

***

_1880_

‘Detective Inspector,’ I greeted, as soon as the man was ushered in through the door, ‘it has been a while.’

            ‘It has, Mr Holmes,’ he nodded, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure?’

            ‘My brother,’ said I, reluctantly, ‘has chosen to waste his life for the barrel of a syringe. I would not have that.’

            I observed the Inspector as he reacted to this news. His eyes went wide, and he frowned, his brow coming down heavy over his eyes.

            These new opioids were not proven to yet have a detrimental effect, but it was as plain as day to those who were on the streets, such as policemen, or to those who were observant, such as I. Opioids clearly inhibited certain principles that were completely unacceptable in modern Victorian society. Politeness and composure were key, and opioids removed these. I could see, as plain as day, the Detective Inspector was extenuatingly aware of this fact.

            ‘I would not … I had not expected that of one such as him,’ stated he, ‘he has a great intelligence, as you made clear to me upon our first meeting, and that he would squander upon opioids is extraordinarily irresponsible in my opinion.’

            ‘He has not a care, I do believe,’ said I, sadly.

            I had learnt from such an early age to play chess. My father would sit me down, and teach me every move. Life was so similar to a game of chess. There were rules, and there were manuals out there that would attempt to teach you these rules, but the manuals would not teach you how to win. Only you could learn to win. Life was just the same. There were moves, and there were manuals that you could read, and attempt to beat me, but the truth was that while you were busy reading the manuals, I would have beaten you six moves previous, and you would not have heard the ‘checkmate’ that I whispered in your ear as I passed by.

            My brother was the single problem that I looked at that I could not see the right way to move, the correct pieces to play. He was as a force of nature, and controlling a force of nature was no easy task. But there were ways, I had to be sure.

            For this was the only way to protect my brother from himself.

            ‘I have a proposal for you, Detective Inspector,’ said I, leaning forwards and resting my chin on clasped hands, ‘A carrot, and a stick.’

            ‘To what are you referring?’

            ‘I shall be the stick,’ explained I, ‘and you shall be the carrot. You will offer my brother cases, as a reward for staying far away from the opioids, and I will be the stick that threatens him with incarceration in a facility that I have devised if he does not retain the composure to refuse.’

            The Inspector looked recalcitrant, and nervous. ‘I am not sure,’ said he, ‘Holmes is not one to be governed and your machinations will not be acceptable to him.’

            ‘It is not his decision to make. I will do what is best for my brother.’

            ‘You care,’ said he, incredulous. I looked at him, regarding him with a withering gaze.

            ‘Of course, I care,’ said I, ‘He is my brother, and I care very deeply for him. He has an ally and a friend in myself, whether or not he may like it. I will always do what is best for my brother, and if that involves manipulating him, making him view me as the enemy, then so be it.’

            ‘This is all for him, is it not?’ The inspector gestured about himself. I realised that he was referring to not just my office, but the position that I held, which I suspected he knew was larger than what I had told him. However, I was almost certain that he knew not the full extent of what I had done.

            ‘Yes,’ I replied, warily, ‘I must watch over my brother, it is as simple as that. I trust you will not tell of this?’

            ‘I suspect that you would have me suffer a most unpleasant fate were I to speak of it,’ said he, his lips curling.

            ‘Certainly.’

***

_1880_

The doctor that came by told me that he expected Sherlock to make a full recovery. For that, I was glad. I sat by his bedside day in, and day out, and expected nothing of him. His fever came, and went.

            Still, time dragged on, and he did not say a word. Sometimes, he would wake, sleepily blinking, then turning away to return to sleep. Other times, he would wake, look at me with such hatred, then attempt to shout, but immediately collapse in weakness.

            It was these times that I hated the most.

            Assistants, retainers, all came by to stare at the spectacle that we made. But none were allowed entry. I finished all my work at my brother’s side. I kept watch over him just as I had always done, and just as I had neglected in the time that I was attempting to build myself higher and higher.

            Eventually, he was strong enough to stay awake for more than a few seconds.

            I regarded him.

            He regarded me.

            ‘Sherlock,’ I began. He cut me off.

            ‘I do not want to hear anything from you,’ he spat, ‘I cannot …’

            ‘No!’ I snapped, enough said. ‘You will respect me, and you will listen to me! Do you have any … you have no notion of what you have done! You are a selfish child of a man who has no regard for those around you, and I will not stand for it.’

            He did not say anything, just looked at me with betrayal in his eyes.

            ‘Everything I have done has been to protect you, how can you not see that?’ I demanded, ‘I have built this … this empire that I am loathe to rule, to keep you safe!’

            ‘No, you have not,’ he whispered, ‘you have not. You wrap your chasing of power in this weave of sentiment, but the truth is simple, Mycroft. You crave control, you crave power. You crave it over all else, and you have not a care.’

            ‘What?’ I demanded.

            ‘You are a centre of a wheel. A wheel that spins, with Regis, with Andrews, with Cobden, Chevalier, Griffiths, Moran. They are all spokes on your wheel. This one’s on top, now that one’s on top, and on and on it spins. You are crushing all the people on the ground.’

            ‘What does it matter, Sherlock,’ I said, ‘the people have never mattered to you.’

            ‘I may not be an angel, but I am on the side of the angels,’ he retorted, ‘but you wouldn’t know that. You are so wrapped up in collecting your chess pieces that you haven’t noticed. Have you ever stopped to ask what I want?’

            ‘What do you want, Sherlock?’ I asked, tiredly condescending.

            ‘I want to be left alone,’ he replied, ‘I want to have a life that is mine. I want to solve my cases, and I want to be clever, and I want to work with Scotland Yard.’

            ‘Then why are you wasting your life down the barrel of syringe?’

            ‘I am not!’ he returned, ‘The cocaine assists with brainwork.’

            ‘It does no such thing! You are fooling yourself, deluding yourself into that belief, because you are addicted!’

            ‘I am no addict, I am a user. I dispense, at certain occasions, small amounts of cocaine that assist in brainwork.’

            I shook my head, laughing tiredly, ‘you are a fool, Sherlock.’

            ‘And you are not?’

            ‘I am not,’ I replied, ‘you are utilising a seven percent solution. I can state that it has certain detrimental effects on your heart and your lungs, and if you are not careful you will die!’

            ‘What do you care?’

            ‘What … what do I care?’ questioned I, incredulous.

            ‘Exactly that! You said to me that you had not a care for me yourself! You told me that you watched out for me because you are my brother. You see me as nothing but a duty, why should you care what happens to me? I highly suspect that it would be a relief to you if I were to die!’

            ‘Enough!’ I roared, my booming voice overtaking his much tinnier one.

            I wonder, sometimes, if it would startle Sherlock to know that the objective of the particular chess game that I have always played with him is his happiness, his safety, his wellbeing. I have fought for so long, and so hard, seemingly, to him at least, I have lost sight of what is truly important. And it is at times such as these that I realise that. It would most certainly startle him, and it does.

            ‘You have no clue,’ I murmured, ‘none. You have no notion of what I have done for you. Do you remember grammar school? When you were beaten by those third formers? You have no notion of what I did to them, but did they harm you once more? Did you not ever question why? I made a promise to you, on that day, I swore that I would build for you an Ivory Tower from which I could watch over your life. I care for you, and I had hoped you having me would be enough.’      

            He was silent.

            ‘Everything I have done, every tower that I built, every wheel you say that I have spun, I have done it to protect you, and that you cannot see that disgusts me. I may not be particularly talented with respect to expressing my regard for you, but understand this, Sherlock. All that I have built, I give to you, freely. I will keep us safe, whatever it takes.’

            With that, I got to my feet, and removed myself from the room.

***

_1887_

I am sorry to say that my plan worked to perfection. Crouched in my office like a dragon protecting its loot, I watched my brother as he solved case after case after case, and remained far, far away from the opioid-driven land that he had come to be so fond of. It was certainly a proud moment.

            I did not feel proud.

            Rather, I felt … dirty. Almost as if the manipulations that came to me so naturally were unusually difficult. Watching my brother dance to my tune, keep himself cleanly out of harm’s way was costing me.

            It hurt, this fact. It hurt that my brother was not rebelling. It was as if his personality had been stripped of him, his naturally contrary nature no longer something that I had to fight against. I had won, but at what cost?

            I visited him, in the hovel of a place that he had entitled his home. I knocked on the door, and he ushered me in without a word of comment. Ordinarily, he would have insulted me, most likely slammed the door in my face, before allowing me inside when he realised that he had no choice. I sat myself gingerly on the seat in his lounge, and frowned.

            He looked at me.

            The sight of his eyes, so dead, and lifeless, was shocking to me.

            I remembered his laughter when I had fallen into the pond. The light in his eyes, the joy. The same light that I saw when he was solving his ‘cases’, when he described them to me. He had the same look when describing the ‘Gloria Scott’, certainly.

            That light that he used he have when he looked at me, when we would engage in conversation that brought out the best in the both of us.

            ‘Sherlock,’ I greeted, nodding.

            ‘Mycroft,’ he returned, just as coolly, ‘you must be ecstatic. Your plan worked to perfection. Rather, I am remaining away from cocaine just as you dictated.’

            ‘Indeed, brother,’ I replied, too proud to admit my possible mistake, ‘and how are you on this fine morning?’

            ‘I am fine, thank you,’ he replied, mechanically. It was terrifying to me. My brother had been stripped away.

            That was perhaps when I realised my most grievous error.

            To this day, I am unsure of what I did wrong, and what I did right. Was it so wrong of me to wish my brother happiness? Was it so wrong of me to wish that he would be safe, and healthy?

            He was not happy. He was safe, he was healthy. Why, I even suspected that he may be eating according to schedule, something he had not done since he was a babe. But he was not happy.

            What, in the end, mattered to me the most? Was it his health? Was it his happiness? I am his brother. I always will be. I could not fault myself for what I had done.

            And yet I was. I am the Ice Man. I have done all I can to assure those whom I work with, work for, and work against, that I have not an emotion within me. That my heart is made of stone, a blackened pit that would retain no mercy for those I struck down from on high. It was a reputation that I took a great deal of pride in.

            But this. Oh, this was far removing me from what I had deemed to be the best route. I was feeling, much as I was loath to admit it. A small part of my mind was screaming at me that this was wrong.

            I had always done my best to do right by my brother. To keep him safe, healthy, happy, beyond what I was assured of.

            I had not failed in that mission, not completely. I had kept him safe. I had kept him healthy. I had kept him _alive._ But, in the process, I had taken from him all his happiness. I had taken from his freedom of choice. I had protected him, just as I had sworn to do, but he was not himself any longer. He was not that joyful soul beneath the walls, behind the mask. He was intelligent, to be sure. He could still hold with me the most thoughtful of conversation; politics, philosophy, mathematics, criminology. And yet. And yet.

            Enough.

            I stood, in that moment, retrieving from my pocket the keys that I had stashed there. I moved towards the window on the far right of the dingy suite. The window was locked, but I pressed the key into the lock. As I turned it, I found a certain sense of trepidation. I understood what I was giving up.

            The lock clicked.

            It sounded almost a death knell.

            The window sprung open.

            The stench of the streets washed over my nose. This was what I felt like I was condemning my brother to.

            Turning, sharply, I laid to rest my doubts, my fears. This was what made him happy. I would watch over him. But I would not manipulate him.

            Thus, I made my choice.

            I laid the keyring down on the table. The keys to his suite – which I had procured for my observations – I was giving up freely.

            He looked at me. His eyes were wide, and I deluded myself into believing that there were tears pooling in the corners, shimmering like gemstones in the sunlight.

            I would not manipulate him. I would not manipulate my brother. Enough.

            ‘Mycroft …’ whispered he.

            I did not have a reply. I sharply rapped my umbrella against the floor, and then slid out of the room. I did not close the door behind me.

            What had I condemned myself to do? Was I to sit in waiting?

            This was my curse, this was my burden. This was my greatest failing, and my greatest triumph, wrapped up with string.

            Checkmate.

***

_1889_

He was gone, that much I knew. I could only hope that he was attempting to keep himself out of harm’s way. But I could not know for certain. I had removed all surveillance on my brother. My runners were retained for simple governmental affairs.

            But I could not help but worry. I had spent the largest part of my life taking care of him, keeping him from harm’s way, that it wasn’t enough to simply have faith in my brother.

            I continued to watch the Government. I continued to keep my country safe. But I was distracted. I made an error. No one but myself noted it.

            I promised myself that I would not allow this to torture me any longer, but it was not something that I could seemingly help.

            I feel like a noose is closing in around my neck. I had gone in one direction, taken in by the lead of my own promises, that now it felt like I had no direction. I had learnt to love the direction my brother had given me, and now it was no longer there.

            Faulting myself, blaming myself, it was all too much. I never regretted more the move that I had made in my brother’s apartment, but neither could I come to fault myself for the decision that I made.

            See my brother I did not. I could not find him, no matter how hard I searched, not without Government resources. I walked the streets at all hours, but I could not find him. For me, that was fine. I simply prayed to all the Gods that I did not believe him that he was safe, that he was protected.

            That he was alive.

            It was one thought that I could never bear to think, but I knew it to be a distinct possibility. Time and time again I convinced myself that Sherlock would be safe. I repeated it to myself like a mantra. Sherlock was clever. Sherlock knew what he was doing. Sherlock knew how to keep himself safe.

            But all signs pointed to the contrary. The roads we walk have demons, beneath. Sherlock’s had been waiting for a very long time. They had been waiting for me to open the gates, to allow them entrance, and at this very moment may be feasting on his entrails.

            An image that rocked me to sleep each and every night.

            ‘Sir,’ said an attendant, one late evening, ‘there is … something here. In the building. Do you wish me to drive him out?’

            I did not allow myself to hope. This night, this night.

            ‘Who is he?’

            ‘We are unsure,’ replied he, ‘I have no notion. None recognise him. He seems … almost as a tramp, or a homeless man, yet he knew how to remove himself to the library. We suspect he may have come through an open window.’

            I stood, my eyes wide. This night, this night.

            ‘Take me to him!’ I demanded. The attendant acquiesced, leading me to the library in the building, gesturing with a simple hand wave towards the door.

            I am not one to forgive and forget. But the simple truth was, that as soon as I laid eyes upon my wayward brother, all the panic, hurt, heartbreak was forgotten.

            Crouched in a corner, I found him. I waved away the attendant, eyeing my brother.

            His hair, long, matted. His eyes, shimmering dimly blue under paper-thin lids. Cheekbones that stood prominently from his face, a skeletal look about him that made me shudder in horror.

            He looked almost as a gothic horror out of a novel.

            He wore rags, scraps of clothing. A torn shirt, half the buttons missing. An old, dusty coat about his shoulders. A hat clenched in one spindly, spidery hand that was crushed and soft. Southern necessities torn cleanly up past the knee.

            The shakes. He was shivering, shuddering, shaking, and I observed as tears fell down his face freely. They made tracks through the dirt and grime caked on his face. He stumbled towards me.

            I caught him. I will always catch him when he needs it. I caught him, and enveloped him in my arms. Winding a hand into his hair, I allowed him to shiver and shake against me, and press his dirt-smeared face into my shirtsleeves.

            He was damp, his skin cold to the touch. He let off a foul stench, one that wrinkled my nose, but I did not care for that. Simply rocking, back and forth, comfortingly.

            ‘Sherlock,’ I whispered, ‘brother mine, I apologise.’

            ‘I … I …’ he shook, ‘I was wrong.’

            ‘No,’ I replied, ‘I knew that I was removing from you your happiness. I had no right to do such a thing. Understand that all I ever wanted to do was ensure your safety, your health, your wellbeing.’

            ‘I understand, now,’ replied he, ‘I see what you have done for me. I know now what I have done to you. For that I am sorry.’

            ‘There is no need to apologise to me,’ said I, ‘there is never any need. I will do what I can, Sherlock, only ever to what makes you healthy, happy and safe.’

            This night. This night. This night of 1889, my brother returned to me. I am eternally grateful.

            I comforted him, rocked him. Allowed him to shake, allowed him to be afraid. Enough, now, and time. I laid him to rest, regaled him with tales of the idiocies of Parliament. For the first time in what felt like an era, he laughed.

            He laughed as I described the intricacies of the insipid, and I felt happy.

***

_1890_

            ‘Sir? Letter.’

            The letter was placed gently on my desk, and I ignored it for a full hour.

            When I came to look at it, it brought such news that I had given up on hearing.

            _Mr Holmes,_

_It has come to my attention that your brother Sherlock Holmes, whom you have had us surveil, has made the acquaintance of a soldier by the name of Doctor John H. Watson. Formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and the 66 th (Berkshire) Regiment of Foot, he has apparently fought in the Second Anglo-Afghan War, and for the British forces in India. _

_It may be in your interest to know that he has recently published a book by the title of; ‘A Study in Scarlet’, with a protagonist in your brother. They have solved certain cases involving Detective Inspector Lestrade together, and this is the first. I have included a copy for your perusal._

_Furthermore, it seems that Doctor Watson proves as an extremely talented companion to Holmes. Watson does not display the level of intellect that your brother wields, however he has a certain manner about him. He did, in fact, shoot the perpetrator of A Study in Scarlet in order to save your brother from a certain doom._

_Sincerely,_

_Magnus Albright_

_P.S. I believe, and this is simply a guess, I beg you do not fault me for stepping out of turn, but your brother appears to have made a friend._

            I took a deep breath, and fiddled with the copy of ‘A Study in Scarlet’ that had been provided. A friend.

            What a strange concept.

            This friend had remained by my brother’s side, without a care. He seemingly had the resistance and strength of mind to sustain my brother’s more intriguing habits, and wayward tendencies. He possessed the ability to protect my brother from the evils of the world. He could assist my brother in a manner that I could not.

            Perhaps it was time.

            I took another deep breath, and lifted pen to paper.

            It was time.

 


End file.
